So, I’ve returned from my travels and I have questions. Among them, why is a planet-wide celebration of athleticism and uncommon sporting prowess being introduced with yet another tedious display of cross-dressing, oddly selective sacrilege, and self-satisfied obesity?

Perhaps I’m missing something. By all means, illuminate me in the comments.

Update, via the comments, where dicentra adds,

I was struck more by the tackiness, the tawdriness of the thing. It just looked so inapt, so adolescent and low-rent. Hackneyed to the point of anachronism. It occurred to me that as a snapshot of a collective cultural psyche, a statement of where we are, or where Our Betters are. it doesn’t instil any great confidence. Or – what’s the word? – oh yes, pride.

Sort of,

I suppose the gender-bending and drag bacchanalia could be construed as some kind of comment on the current Olympic rules regarding who may compete in women’s events – i.e., women, not men. At least, not men who have gone through puberty. So, some men. But not as many as some activists and “allies” might wish. Say, ostentatiously “queer” artistic directors of Olympic opening ceremonies. Maybe even this small concession to physical reality – that men and women are different – was deemed a provocation, an outrage, and a basis for retaliation. As if not being allowed to cheat were a form of oppression.

It’s just a thought. Though not, I think, a wildly implausible one.

Also, open thread.

Brace for turbulence:

Argentina’s first transgender pilot has debuted the new uniform designed for the female pilots of the country’s national airline.

Traniela Campolieto announced his “transition” to passengers during a flight last year, after which one person tried to get off the plane. pic.twitter.com/v1h3Iyl128

— REDUXX (@ReduxxMag) July 20, 2024

And hey, every passenger wants the pilot to be a bewigged, mentally ill fetishist who bangs on about the super-girly tightness of his uniform, and who takes endless, pouting selfies in the cockpit.

To say nothing of the heightened risk of suicidal inclinations. Ah, the thrill of modernity.

Before becoming a shimmering vision of womanliness, Mr Campolieto was a professional bodybuilder, a proverbial brick shithouse. Hence the bad wig, the transformative powers of which may have been overestimated.

Update, via the comments, where WTP adds,

From the above Publica link:

And so, the pilot in charge of 250 tonnes of Airbus A330, and on whom the lives of 400 or so passengers depend, is a man whose perceptions are wildly unreliable, at least regarding himself.

Previously: Banking and mental illness, together at last. Oh, and policing and mental illness. Because unstable personalities, such that a person isn’t entirely sure who or what they are on any given day, are very in right now.

Consider this an open thread. Share ye links and bicker.

From transgender Reddit, a new niche woe. Specifically,

And more specifically,

We’re all learning things today.

Again, learning things.

Ooh. So close.

In subsequent replies, the similarly traumatising terms gock and bussy are also pondered, along with girldick and female penis. And yes, these will be on Friday’s test.

Other commenters suggest a policy of coyness on the subject:

The terrible wrongness of terminological appropriation crops up, as do thoughts as to which terms are most affirming of a gentleman’s state of ladylikeness. Another contributor, a “genderfluid he/she/they,” insists that, as one would obviously defer to a person’s pronouns, one should likewise defer to that person’s preferred terms for their genitals. Because discussing the other person’s genitals is a thing that happens, apparently.

Those unschooled in the world of transgender penis discourse will find much to chew on.

Via Eliza Mondegreen.

Also, open thread. Share ye links and bicker.

Or, And This Is Mommy’s Snatch.

Yes, I’m reading Scary Mommy, where exclamation points abound, and where ladies of a progressive leaning share their political radicalism. In this case, Ms Kate Auletta, the publication’s editor-in-chief, is thrilling us with tales of her domestic nakedness:

It seems, then, that the nudity is not so much shared, a gift to the world, but more something inflicted. Specifically, on the author’s two small boys. I’ll spare you the lengthy description of Ms Auletta’s various physical imperfections – the rolls of excess flesh, the big, sagging bosom, and the whole Fat Upper Pubic Area thing.

I’m assuming she means naked in the changing rooms, though any observance of such boundaries is not made clear.

At which point, sharp-eyed readers may be attempting to reconcile this,

With this:

Come to think of it, I’m not entirely sure what loving one’s body might mean, beyond the obvious off-colour jokes. But apparently, it’s something that one is supposed to proclaim as an accomplishment, a credential of progressivism. I have, however, noted that it tends to be announced by people whose declared triumph in this matter is not altogether convincing, and whose basis for doing so is generally much slimmer than they are.

Still, there are the obligatory noises to be made, and empowerment to invoke:

There we go. Because, clearly, it’s a blow to the Patriarchy, a radical act. A feat of progressive heroism. Not just some incongruous crack and badger. Come up onstage to collect your certificate and enamel badge. Everyone applaud.

That’s quite enough. You can stop now.

No, really. We have everything we need, madam.

So, again, it’s all about empowerment and “body positivity,” you see. Oceans of self-love. Or at least the intermittent appearance of such. Something done “without a care,” except “on most days.”

It must be quite strange to go through life feeling a need to boast in print of some pointed behaviour – specifically, “showing my sons what a real woman’s body… looks like” – as if this feat of not wearing knickers were somehow radical, empowering, and a basis for applause. And to then have to justify this lifestyle affectation in ways that are somewhat contradictory and not particularly convincing. As if no-one would notice. It seems a lot of effort.

When not treating her small boys to the sight of her arse and undercarriage, Ms Auletta offers other educational experiences:

Those lucky, lucky kids. How the time must fly.

Previously in the world of Scary Mommy:

Empowered woman dreams of Donald Trump, has panic attacks.

Empowered woman, user of Xanax, suffers from internalised capitalism.

Another empowered lady and her mood-stabilising medication.

A tale of laundry and resentment.

On auras, emanations, and paranormal parenting.

Empowered woman, who is in no way unhinged, teaches her small children to scream profanities at random people.

There’s more, should you want it, if you poke through the archives.

Update, via the comments:

Regarding the six items linked above, Aitch adds,

Not an unfair question. What with the recurring motif of mood-stabilising drugs, the existential trauma of hearing differing views, the lurid fantasies regarding Mr Trump, or the obsessive thoughts about babies heads spontaneously falling off. To say nothing of how often these preoccupations bedevil ladies who are employed, or have been employed, as public-school educators.

I should add that the links at the end of the post are but a small sample. I can’t monitor Scary Mommy around the clock. And frankly, I wouldn’t care to.

It’s rather like the now-defunct Everyday Feminism, a publication once very popular among the super-woke, with over four million monthly visitors, had an extraordinary number of articles, several every week, on the subject of living with mental illness. From delusions of witchcraft to serious Cluster-B personality disorders.

But among progressive women, there is, I think, a pattern. One that’s fairly hard to miss.

Though doubtless many try.

Speaking, as we were, of Clown Quarter academics and their relentless intellectual thrusting, I bring you this:

“Digital media practices” sounds so much more scholarly than, say, tarts who use OnlyFans. Oh, and Instagram. Naturally, this is being done “through an intersectional feminist framework.” One that “centres lived experience.” So lofty stuff, and rigorous to boot.

The researcher behind this colossal undertaking informs us,

Quiet at the back. Don’t make me flick the lights on and off.

As I said, all terribly high-minded. Political, even.

Should any doubt remain,

And as we’ve seen, many times, the Clown Quarter is driven purely by academic enquiry, a ceaseless thirst for knowledge.

Update:

In the comments, Twin Cities Teegan asks, not unreasonably,

Alas, such details, should they exist, are now hidden from view. We are, however, assured,

At risk of being presumptuous, it occurs to me that this theme of minimised intellectual labour may apply more generally. A suspicion not shaken by our scholar’s claims of “challenging patriarchal systems” by sharing nude photos on Instagram. Or by her public ruminations on such topics as “The Gendered Politics of Body Hair,” a feat of rote regurgitation and colossal self-involvement, in which we learn of the crushing oppressions of leg-waxing and eyebrow maintenance.

Readers who wish to probe further into the bush can find our scholar’s inexpert twerking here.